


Six Opportunities.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Chaptered, Crossover, Gen, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times Sherlock almost met the man in the blue box and the one time he finally succeeded in catching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Years Old.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovely readers! This story was originally started in February of this year and I'm ashamed to say that I haven't actually finished it. However, by the time I get around to posting the last new chapter, I will be on study week from university and will have time to finish it. In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy. xo.

The first time Sherlock sees the blue telephone box (or what he thinks at the time is a telephone box), he thinks that maybe he's as daft as Mycroft always says he is. After all, although he's seen telephone boxes before, he's never seen a blue one; they're always red, at least in England. He's not sure about what color they are in other countries (at the age of seven, Sherlock had not yet left the island of Great Britain) but if the telephone boxes in, say, France were blue, why would one be in his back yard on an early September evening?

He thinks that maybe he's seeing things; he knows from some of the television he's watched that people sometimes see things that aren't really there so he squeezes his eyes shut tight until he's seeing fireworks. By the time he opens them again, he's almost managed to convince himself that the blue box won't be resting underneath the giant tree in his yard.

But it's still there and now, there's a man poking his head out of it. Sherlock can't make out much detail of his face, but he looks a little older than Mycroft and a lot younger than his dad. He can see that he's wearing a slightly crooked bow tie, which seems a little strange. Sherlock doesn't think he's ever seen his dad in a bow tie and his dad wears ties every single day.

He thinks that maybe he should go and ask the man if he's lost or something. Maybe he's supposed to be putting the telephone box in one of the nearby villages and took a wrong turn somewhere. Sherlock knows that this doesn't make much sense, because in order to get into the backyard, the man would have had to somehow get the box through the front gate and he's pretty sure that his parents would have noticed such a thing but nonetheless, it's the only explanation he has.

In the end, he decides to ask Mycroft what he thinks first. His brother is rather rude sometimes and often treats Sherlock like he's a squashed bug on the bottom of his shoe but he _is_ pretty smart. He thinks that maybe Mycroft knows who the man is or how he got into the yard at least.

After five minutes of Mycroft ignoring him, he finally manages to get his brother to come to the window, pointing outside to where the telephone box was.

_Was?_

The telephone box and the man have both disappeared, leaving no sign that they existed at all. Mycroft mutters something rude under his breath and gently smacks Sherlock in the side of the head, going back to sulking or whatever he was doing. Sherlock continues to stand in front of the door for a few moments, his mind racing, trying to figure out what exactly happened.

He decides that maybe he's been up too late; he's been awake for an entire day and a half, curious to see what would happen. Apparently it's made him daft already.

When he finally goes to sleep, he dreams of the blue box. In his dreams, it can fly.


	2. Fifteen Years Old.

By the time Sherlock sees what he now knows is a police box (commonly used in the sixties, mostly phased out since), he's eight years older but not much else has changed. Mycroft is still rude and still eats too many sweets, although he's started to wear a suit like his father. He still lives in the house with the massive back yard where the box appeared all those years ago, but now there's a guest house built on the exact spot where it materialized. He still hasn't seen many people who wear bow ties as part of their common clothing.

Most importantly, eight years after Sherlock saw a young man in odd clothing poke his head out of a box that had no business being in his backyard, Sherlock is still completely alone or, as his brother succulently puts it, he has no friends.

It's not that people haven't _tried_ to be his friends, however; indeed, over the years, there have been quite a few persons who have tried to strike up conversations with him. But they've all been so futile; none of them have had anything interesting to say. It's always the same tedious things, about the weather and their pets and sometimes their kids and it's all just so _useless_. None of them have anything important to say. 'Friends' would be a massive waste of his time, time that is better spent conducting experiments that tell him far more about the universe than the kids at school could ever hope to tell him.

Interestingly enough, it's the fact that he's alone that leads him to see the box for the second time. He's skipping school for the fifth time in two weeks, sitting on the grass in the village park, doing what he supposes is called 'people-watching.' Frankly, he hates the term; it sounds creepy, almost stalkerish. Really, all he's doing is observing. The more he watches, the more he learns and the more he learns, the more it's confirmed that most people are boring and predictable and really, rather useless in his own life.

The wind picks up, just for a second, and it carries a noise on it, something like he's never heard before, all electronic and metallic at the same time. He sits up straight, head gazing around, just knowing, feeling somewhere in his mind that something new, something important is about to happen.

It's across the park. It's blurry for a second, like a picture out of focus but then it solidifies and the door creaks open and sure enough, that young face and the bowtie poke out cautiously, just like he'd seen in his backyard. This time, however, the man strides out and Sherlock, despite the distance, can see that he hasn't aged one bit.

How was that possible?

For the first time in ages, he actually feels challenged, feels almost confused about something. It's been eight years; not that long a stretch of time but enough for subtle signs of aging to show up. He needs to get closer, needs to see and so he stands up and starts running, leaving his things on the grass behind him.

He's nearly there, close enough to see the pattern on the bow tie (maroon stripes) but suddenly, the man does a round-about and steps back through the open door. Before he slams it shut, Sherlock catches the beginning of one sentence, cut off by the blue door closing with a loud bang.

"Wrong time-"

Before he has time to ponder what it means, the wind picks up again and before his eyes, the police box begins to fade in and out, pulsing. That sound is ringing in his ears, the sound that doesn't sound like it belongs on Earth and then, with one final whoosh, the box is gone. Disappeared. Completely vanished, right before his own very eyes. He stares at the spot where it had been for a few more moments before bringing one hand up and viciously pinching himself, convinced that this is one of his particularly realistic looking dreams.

Instead, he just ends up with a sore arm.

He knows now that people who imagine things that aren't really there are generally schizophrenic. He knows that people with schizophrenia often speak in borderline gibberish, spitting out phrases that don't make much sense or going on and on about delusions of grandeur. He knows that most schizophrenics suffer from auditory hallucinations but that visual and even olfactory ones are common as well.

He also knows that he, Sherlock Holmes, is _not_ schizophrenic. He knows that what he saw was real and the impression of a square the exact size of a police box in the soft ground backs him up.

Unlike the first time, however, he doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't have anyone to tell.


	3. a) Inspector Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is where things deviate a little from the five plus one style of the fic. I wanted to delve further into Sherlock's life and show how 'the man in the blue box' affects him when he's not around, if that makes sense. xo.

Sherlock is twenty-three years old when he meets the first person (beyond family and the man in the blue police box) who actually has a concrete impact upon his life. He's moved to London, having finally escaped the clutches of his childhood home and he hasn't talked to his parents since. Mycroft, who has moved from merely being an irritating prat to being an irritating prat who holds a minor position in the government, still tries to email or call him but really, Sherlock spends most of the time that he's not working at St. Bartholomew's Hospital walking around London, memorizing the various roads and the layouts of the buildings.

It's on one of these days that he meets Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's focusing on the thoroughfares around Piccadilly Circus, trying to map out various shortcuts, when he turns a corner and almost literally walks onto a crime scene. The small alley is packed with police but Sherlock can still see, in the middle of them all, that there's a man lying on the ground, obviously dead. It's obvious from the sheer incompetence and casual demeanour of the police standing around that they're treating it as a suicide.

Idiots.

"He didn't kill himself." At the sound of his voice, literally everyone in the alley swivels around, staring at him with a mixture of anger, confusion and plain arrogance.

"And who exactly are you?" The man who questions him is middle-aged, with dark hair that is starting to gray around the temples. He has frown lines at the corner of his mouth and his teeth suggest that he was a previous smoker and consumes an excessive amount of coffee. He's been married, mostly happily, for at least five years, one child, moderately well off judging by his clothing. He has a gun in the left inside pocket of his jacket and a knife strapped to his right ankle. Precautions like that are usually only taken by someone who has seen some kind of action, which means that he isn't a desk jockey.

Indeed, Sherlock believes that he's the head of the investigation. But that assumption mainly comes from the fact that he's staring Sherlock down with a look that is meant to be intimidating.

"Name's Sherlock Holmes," he says, not bothering to stick out his hand, "and that man was murdered."

"He very plainly killed himself," the man replies instantly, nodding backwards. "Has a note on him and everything."

"Please," Sherlock scoffs, striding forward. The other policemen don't move aside but they don't stop him; they mostly look too bemused. He really doesn't understand how they don't see how staged the whole thing is.

"His neck was broken before he hit the ground," he says aloud, gently moving the man's head back and forth to demonstrate. "He would have had to dive head first in order to break it upon impact and from the way he landed, from the position of his arms, he was obviously pushed." Standing back up, he plucks the bag containing the suicide note out of the hands of the gobsmacked examiner holding it.

God, it was all so, so obvious.

"The note was written under duress. The paper was originally being used for an entirely different letter. You can see how there's wavering on the content of the letters in the note itself but not on the _Dear Mary_ at the top. I say that you're looking at a typical love triangle and that the man lying at my feet happened to be the odd one out." Handing the note back to the stunned examiner, he reaches into the head detective's pocket and plucks out his mobile, quickly adding his contact information in before handing it back.

"If I'm right, email me." With that, he returns to his walk, completely re-immersing himself in the layout of the alleys and buildings.

He isn't surprised, however, when he receives a message three days later, just as he's about to examine a new body in the mortuary.

_You were right. About everything. Would you be willing to help again in the future? We can pay you._

_\- Detective Inspector Lestrade_

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. He knew that he had been right about the situation but for the first time in... well, in his entire life, someone was actually listening to what he had to say. He felt almost appreciated. It was a rather foreign experience but he thought that it was rather nice, if he was going to be honest with himself.

He pushed that away as soon as he could and wiped the smile from his face. There was no point in getting used to the feeling. Chances were that the inspector was just being courteous, a routine follow-up of sorts. He was probably just as incompetent as the rest of his force. Nonetheless, he felt obligated to respond.

_Don't worry about payment. I'll help if you need it. But only interesting cases. Nothing boring._

_SH_

It's only later, when he's standing in front of the window of his flat, looking out at the streets while playing violin, that he realizes something so abruptly that he draws the bow across the strings with an ugly screech that he would have abhorred any other time.

He realizes that, for the first time since he was fifteen years old, he has something to look forward to other than seeing the man in the blue box again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally posted this chapter on ff.net, I said text instead of email. However, basing on how Sherlock ages in this story, I don't think texting would have been very common. Ergo, changed to email. xo.


	4. Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And still breaking the 5 plus one format. In addition, I've been a bit... lenient, with Sherlock's age, for lack of a better term. xo.

It's been nearly ten years but he still dreams about it. It's not a nightly occurrence but it still happens often enough for him to consider it a recurring dream. It's always the same: he's standing in his old backyard on a clear, silent night, waiting for the inevitable pulsing to break through the air. When it does and the police box has materialized, instead of leaping up and racing towards it (which is what he'd actually do), he just continues to sit calmly, staring at it, waiting for the door to creak open. It's only when it does that he gets up and strides slowly towards the open door, waiting for the man in the bow tie to invite him in.

But he never shows up. Sherlock always wakes up before he reaches the door.

He tries not to think about it in his waking hours, although this generally isn't a huge problem. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been providing him with a rather steady stream of interesting (and a few resoundingly dull) cases for the past two years and in between that and his job at the hospital, he rarely has the time to actually think about the police box.

Nonetheless, he still dreams about it.

A month before his twenty-fifth birthday, Sherlock meets Mrs. Hudson, a woman that he nearly dismisses the first time he sees her. Her entire life is written on her, from the faded scars on her neck that she has tried to hide with makeup to the cheap shoes that she has had resoled numerous times. Nonetheless, he also notices that she has a unique strength in her eyes, a strength that she's obviously dedicated to preserving. It's admirable, really.

The case itself is rather routine; her husband, an American wanted for murder in his home country, was stalking her but Lestrade and his (rather inept) team were unable to locate, let alone catch the man. Within twenty-four hours, Sherlock has the man in custody and the paperwork was signed to extradite him back to America. It was all obvious.

What he doesn't expect is for Mrs. Hudson to actually care about him, even if its in a vaguely irritating, mothering way. After the case is closed, she continues to contact Sherlock every so often, asking him if he needs anything. He always says no but despite that, she begins to develop the habit of showing up at his flat with small baskets of food and packages of tea.

After the third time, he gives up on trying to reject them. His decision is a multi-levelled one; on one hand, the money he saves from her bringing him food lets him use his income on more important things, like a new microscope. On the other hand, he enjoys the treatment. His mother was never the doting type, leaving him and Mycroft largely to their own devices and neither her or his father bother to try to contact him now that he's moved out of their home.

He's still surprised when her relationship with him continues for a substantial period of time; indeed, when he turns twenty-seven years old, she's the only person who shows up at his flat, holding a rather tackily decorated homemade cake. Mycroft sends him a text, which he immediately deletes. There's nothing from his parents.

Despite the fact that he considers her the closest thing he has to a friend, he's still surprised when she asks if he wants to become one of her tenants. He didn't even know that Mrs. Hudson was a landlady. Indeed, after she leaves (and after he's agreed to come look at the flat; his is getting a little too small for all his things), he realizes that despite the years that he has known her, she has never said much about herself. He's detected things, of course, but most people insist on unloading every boring detail of their life onto you the instant you meet them and she never did that.

After a week of thinking about potential flatmates (and coming up with nobody), he decides to take the place anyways. A quick, cursory glance at the rooms confirm his choice and before he goes to the hospital for the day, he calls in a few favours to have all of his things moved in that day.

It's at St. Bartholomews, two hours after he sees the flat, that he meets the man who becomes both his flatmate and the most important person of his life.


	5. John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the final chapter that deviates from the 5 plus one format. xo.

John is the only person he ever tells about the man in the blue box. He's really not entirely sure what it is about his flatmate that compels him to spill the secret; it's probably a mixture of his remarkable patience and the fact that Sherlock knows that John saw things in Afghanistan that he couldn't explain either. Whatever it actually is, one night after they've been sitting around the fire for two hours in near-silence, he opens his mouth and the story comes spilling out. The entire time, John stares at him, hands folded in his lap, face irritatingly hard to read. Yet despite his nervousness about the situation, about allowing himself to become so vulnerable, once he starts talking, Sherlock can't stop. His mind simply refuses to let him shut up until every last detail is spilled into the open air.

Afterwards, John is silent for exactly thirty-six seconds and for a few gut-wrenching moments, Sherlock thinks that maybe John isn't the person he thought he was. Maybe he's like Anderson and Donavon, narrow-minded, only putting up with Sherlock because he's useful. He actually finds himself standing up, reaching for his coat but John grabs his wrist before he can leave, his grip strong enough to leave bruises.

"I believe you." It's simple but it's enough. It's _more_ than enough; it's more than anyone else would ever give him. When Sherlock looks in his eyes, it becomes all too clear that John is telling the truth.

They're silent for the rest of the night but it's the most perfect silence Sherlock has ever experienced in his entire life. There's no ulterior motives hidden in it, no uncomfortable feelings; it's almost a reassuring silence. It's like John knows that he doesn't want to talk about the issue anymore, even though he's certain that his flatmate has a multitude of questions about the whole situation.

Even if Sherlock was in the mood to answer John's questions, he was afraid that he would be useless; after all, they were probably the same questions he asked himself every day of his life.

In the year that passes between the first time he tells John about the police box and the next time the issue comes up between them, Sherlock finds himself almost forgetting about it. He literally goes weeks, even months without thinking about the police box. He even stops dreaming about it. Occasionally, the thought will just pop into his head unexpectedly and for a few brief, debilitating seconds, it claims his mind completely, cutting off all other matters.

But these spells never last long. Quite frankly, he doesn't have the time to deal with them. It seems that with every case he takes on, he's becoming more and more 'high-profile,' as John calls it. It's rather annoying at times but he does have to admit that it gives him a wider range of cases to choose from. He never finds himself resorting to something mindlessly dull just to keep his mind from straying into darker areas of his consciousness.

But the fact is that he doesn't forget. Just almost does.

It's one rare day off when John mentions the blue police box again. He's sitting in his arm chair, face covered by a paper, constantly muttering about taxes and the government and a bunch of other useless drivel. Sherlock is lying on the couch, trying to block him out, pondering an idea for a new experiment involving the effects of cold on eyeballs, when he notices that John has stopped droning and is instead peering at him over the edge of his paper. His eyes are wide and even though his mouth is still hidden, Sherlock can tell from the twitch of his facial muscles that he's attempting to construct a sentence.

"Well, out with it then," he huffs.

"Page four." John tosses the paper at him and Sherlock obligatorily flips to the correct page, expecting there to be another article on him or possibly a chance for a case. Instead, his heart does something odd as he stares at the photograph that takes up a quarter of page four. The article it accompanies talks about some very odd seismic activity occurring around a major drilling project in Southern Wales but it's the picture that's important.

In the background, slightly blurry, is the blue police box. It's sitting in front of a grove of trees and standing in front of it, plain to see, is the young man with the bow tie, accompanied by a woman with long red hair. Although the quality of the picture isn't the greatest in the world, Sherlock can tell one thing without a doubt.

The man hasn't aged a bit.

He immediately stands up and bolts for his bedroom, grabbing the few things he needs for the trip. By the time he gets back, he's slightly surprised to see that John has done the same thing and has already pulled his jacket on.

"Can't have you going off on your own," he says, hoisting his overnight bag onto his good shoulder. "You need someone to interpret your words for my fellow idiots." Although he says it in a light-hearted way, it still makes Sherlock twitch slightly. Not because he disagrees with John using the word idiots; almost everyone he meets, regardless of whether they're in the government or a homeless person, is completely useless in almost every way.

No, what he takes offence to is the fact that John included himself in the category of idiots. Sherlock knew this before but the very fact that John remembered the police box story after a year of absolutely no discussion merely proves his point.

John Watson is _not_ an idiot.


	6. His Name is the Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For you eagle-eyed readers/Whovians out there, the incident referenced in this chapter does take place slightly in the future, according to the show. However, I changed the timeline a little bit so that it occurred in modern day. xo.

For most of the train ride, Sherlock remains silent, staring out the window at the passing nature. John sleeps for most of the ride but, despite the fact he'd stayed up the entire night, Sherlock doesn't even entertain the thought of closing his eyes. He feels jittery, his body reacting in a way similar to cocaine, complete with the giddy euphoria.

He doesn't like to think about those days, so he slams his clammy palms down onto his knees, making his feet hit the floor with enough force to jolt John awake. For one brief second, he reaches for the pistol tucked inside his jacket but his hand drops once he recognizes the compartment. Instead, he looks at his watch and groans audibly, rubbing his eyes.

"Sherlock, was it absolutely necessary for us to take the midnight train?" he mutters, stretching his legs out onto Sherlock's side of the compartment.

"Yes John, it was absolutely necessary," he says, yanking the paper out of his pocket and flipping to page four again. He has studied the picture so many times already that the ink is starting to wear out, staining onto his fingers when he runs them over it once again. It can't be real, it can't be, but he knows what a fabricated photo looks like. This isn't one of them.

They finally pull into the station as the sun is coming up and he's immediately off, arranging for someone to take them to the remote village where the seismic activity occurred. It takes almost one hundred and fifty pounds (and some persuasion from John) but he finds a cab driver who agrees to take them on the hour long drive. Almost as soon as they get into the cab, John asks the question that has obviously been in his mind since the previous evening.

"What are you going to say if he's there?" Sherlock thinks about the question for a good three minutes, looking out the window once again as the small town changes into forest. He's never understood the appeal of the countryside; it may be pretty but who cares about beauty? At least in the city, he was never bored.

Well, almost never bored. And that was the important thing.

"I don't know," he finally says, tearing his gaze away from the passing trees. "I honestly don't know."

He thinks that it's the first time he's ever said those words to John and he suddenly feels extremely vulnerable. He needs to distract himself from the feeling so he launches into a report about his latest experiments, telling John in detail how he is now able to discern various types of clay from each other.

When he looks over at John five minutes later, he's asleep again. Sherlock isn't offended; that's exactly what he'd hoped would happen. Maybe if John slept for a while longer, he'd forget about Sherlock's plan or rather, his lack of plan, when it came to the man in the blue box.

John wakes up just as they arrive in the small village that has sprung up around the now defunct drilling project. His hair is all tousled from leaning against the window but Sherlock can tell by the look in his eyes and his reassuring smile that he knows Sherlock isn't prepared for this all.

Damn it.

Sherlock only has to show the picture to one person before he's being directed to a house just on the outskirts of the town (or hamlet, which is what it really is). He can feel his heart racing in his chest, speeding up even though he tries to will it to just slow down. He doesn't want to get his hopes up over something that is undoubtedly just a hoax, just a silly photograph that meant nothing.

But his heart won't slow down and his respiration is starting to increase and he's _nervous_. He can't remember the last time he felt nervous; it's just another one of the useless emotions he tried to eradicate but now it's back with a vengeance and he doesn't know what to do.

"Sherlock." John's hand is heavy on his shoulder and it's only then that he realizes he's truly hyperventilating, lungs completely betraying the pleading of his mind. "Just listen to me, listen to my voice, okay? You just need to calm down, it's going to be okay. Deep breaths, that's it."

It's days like this that Sherlock is really, truly grateful for John Watson.

When he finally calms down, he finds himself experiencing yet another emotion that he'd thought lost to him: embarrassment. He was falling apart, falling apart in front of John and all because of something that might have been nothing but a childish hallucination. Nonetheless, he forces himself to mutter a thank you and continues to trudge down the road, the house soon coming into sight. It's a small thing, one story, surrounded by a low stone wall that has seen better days. There's a small vegetable garden in the front yard and a man's bicycle is leaning against the wall of the house, rusted in a few places.

_Two adults, one child. Family not exceptionally well off. No pets. Don't spend much time outside. House was probably an inheritance of sorts. Not dangerous._

When he knocks on the door, it's answered by a woman who is obviously aged beyond her years. Her face is a tapestry of wrinkles, both deep and shallow, and her eyes are tired. She looks like she's lived decades longer than she most likely has and as Sherlock flicks back to her eyes, he realizes that _she_ knows how old she looks.

Right. People are vain. He forgets this sometimes.

"May I help you?" Before he can think too much and therefore pause, he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the photo from the newspaper, holding it up to her eye level.

"Do you know who this is?" he asks, jabbing the picture pointedly. "I need to talk to him immediately."

"You should probably come sit down." The response is to the point and he's a little taken aback at first; indeed, it's only when John practically shoves him that he follows her through the front door of her home. He tries not to analyze things too deeply but this proves easier said than done; every photo, every inch of carpet, it all holds so much information about the people that live in the house.

She sits him and John down in a small living room before disappearing to make tea. Sherlock forces himself to look down at the ground, his legs jittering again. Even though the woman and her home seem relatively unobtrusive, Sherlock knows that she's seen him. He recognizes the look in her eyes from his own mirror, from the nights he wakes up after one of the dreams and can't sleep.

She's seen the man in the blue box.

As soon as Ambrose (as she introduces herself) starts her own story, he can't help but feel pity for her. Her story is obviously the result of a psychotic break, perhaps a way to block out the circumstances of her father's death. For the most part, her account is completely non-nonsensical, complete with an alien race living deep below the planet's surface and dirt that swallows people up. Nonetheless, he keeps listening, continually biting back his comments.

"His name is the Doctor." It's when she says this that Sherlock's head snaps up and he drops the cup to the carpet. He doesn't know what it is but a powerful surge of _something_ goes through his body, making goosebumps run up his spine. His fingernails are pressing into his knees but he's powerless to stop them.

"Sherlock?" John leans in close to him, that heavy hand on his shoulder again, gently shaking him. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

He bolts. Without so much as a goodbye, he bolts out the door of the cottage, nearly tripping over a garden spade that has been carelessly left in the path. He runs down the road, hardly aware of where he's going, head pounding.

It's true. Ridiculous as it sounds, he knows that every last word she said was true. He doesn't know why he's so certain in his conviction but he just knows that it's all true. He knows that the impossible happened, that there's a mad man with an un-aging face who travels around in a blue police box and who fights aliens.

He knows that aliens exist.

When John catches up to him half an hour later, Sherlock is sitting in what could possibly be described as the village square, back leaning against a dry fountain. John wordlessly sits beside him, waiting for him to speak and Sherlock is just so grateful that John is his friend.

"He's real John," he says quietly, looking up at the afternoon sky, pale blue and free of clouds. "The Doctor's real."

"Of course he is," John replies, stretching his legs out with a groan. "Did you really ever believe otherwise?"

No, Sherlock thinks, but that was beyond the point.

"What am I going to do?" He's pretty sure that this is something else he's never said to John and concludes that it must be a day for firsts.

"Well obviously, we're going to find him." Sherlock tilts his head sideways so that he can look at John's eyes. He's fairly certain that John was being serious but he has to make sure, just in case.

He's being serious.

"We're going to find him," he repeats, just to hear the words pass his lips. "We're going to find the Doctor." As soon as he says it, his head stops hurting. With the words spoken aloud, it confirms to him that this isn't a particularly vivid dream. Him and John are about to take on a new case, the most difficult they've ever worked on, one that will absolutely change his life forever.

It's also this point when he realizes, with a muttered curse word, that they have another mystery to solve first.

"John, do you have the number of that cab company? It's a long walk back to the train station."


	7. Drugs and Dreams.

Funny how life can be so _distracting_ sometimes.

Even after their journey to the village in Wales, even after the promise him and John made, the case of the Doctor and his blue box still ends up shoved into the back of Sherlock's mind. It's not like he _wants_ it there but almost as soon as they return to London, Sherlock finds himself embroiled in the middle of another case that takes up every ounce of his attention for a number of months.

The Woman. Irene Adler, dominatrix to royalty. Even if he wanted to ignore the case, he can't. Adler is only the second person in the world (besides Moriarty) who actually, in some way, challenges him. She's not intimidated by him at all; indeed, her confidence in herself is almost astounding and truly fascinating.

Nonetheless, he still doesn't expect her to drug him. Even after he's been stuck, he doesn't expect the drug to begin to work so fast. Over the years, he'd thought that he'd developed a resistance of sorts to various kinds of toxins and sedatives, due to multiple nights of self-experimentation. But it's been awhile; with John around, he's started to slack off.

He knows it isn't John's fault though. That's the last truly clear thought he has before falling into the abyss. He dreams, vivid dreams that are all colors and memories that make his stomach sick. Or maybe that's the drugs. He really doesn't know.

When John drops him on his own bed, he wakes up, sort of. He's conscious but, frustratingly, nothing makes sense. He has no idea how he got back from Irene's home, has no idea where his coat is and he really doesn't know why there seems to be an aura around John's head. Last time he checked, John wasn't an angel.

He can't deal with things that don't make sense, so he shuts his eyes again and tumbles back into the darkness, catching snippets of conversation and glimpses of people's faces. He thinks he hears Lestrade at one point but that might just be a memory.

But then he sees _him_ and he drags himself out of the darkness, clawing until he's conscious enough to look at the side of the his bed, where there is a man sitting. His eyes are already threatening to close but, with every ounce of self-control he can muster, he forces them to stay open, just so he can confirm that the Doctor is indeed sitting on the edge of his bed. Once he recognizes the bow tie and the eternally young face, they close again. He stays awake for a few more seconds, long enough to hear the Doctor's voice for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

"It's almost time, Sherlock. I'll be there, I promise."

And then he's falling again and when he wakes up for good, the Doctor is gone. As soon as he can formulate words again, he calls for John, who rushes in like he was waiting just outside the door.

(Sherlock reminds himself that he probably was.)

"He was here," he manages to spit out, wincing as he realizes that he's been left with a splitting headache. "The Doctor, John, he was here."

"Sherlock, I was in the flat the entire time," John says softly, casually reaching one hand out and resting it on Sherlock's forehead, testing for a temperature. "I would have heard him if he'd been here. You must have been dreaming."

It isn't the explanation Sherlock wants to believe but he supposes that it does make sense. His mind had been playing tricks on him, bringing his unconscious to life. Although the thought makes his stomach sink slightly (or maybe that's the drugs again), he prepares himself to accept it.

For a few moments, he actually does. But then, when he swings his legs off of the bed, he sees his coat hanging off the back of his door. By all rights, that coat should have still been in Ms. Adler's home.

If she had snuck by John, then it would have been child's play for the Doctor to do so.


	8. Contradictory Handwriting.

Sherlock is terrified. He's never been one to succumb to the notion of fear but there's no denying that he's frightened. His heart is thudding in his ears and he can feel it going faster and faster with each dark second that ticks by, with each moment that goes by without help.

He can't find John. He doesn't remember losing him but somehow he knows that John is lost, that he's flailing around on the moor, looking for Sherlock. Sherlock has to, _needs_ to find John because there's something following him, something huge and evil lurking in the darkness, just beyond the reach of his vision. It's something that he's seen before, something that he destroyed and yet, here it is again, lunging for him, its massive teeth snapping at his ankles.

The hound.

No matter how fast he runs, the hound runs faster, nipping at his heels, growling from deep within itself. All Sherlock can do is keep running, his heart racing, nearly overcome with fear, calling out John's name desperately. He has to tell John to run, to go get help, to-

The hound's teeth latch around his leg and Sherlock Holmes bolts awake, safe in his bed, sweat already drying on his face. It takes a few moment for his heart to slow back down and he uses that time to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, to make himself positive that he was only dreaming.

Everything is how it should be. There's a small hole in the floor beside his bed from where he'd knocked over a beaker of acid only hours before and the window is still open, just like he'd left it when he'd passed out from exhaustion. He really is in 221B Baker Street, not the moor; he's not being chased by a hound and John is sleeping down the hallway in his own room, probably not having nightmares.

Sherlock sighs and gets out of bed. There's no point in attempting to go back to sleep; the damned nightmare has made sure of that. It's been nearly two months since the incident on the moor, since Henry Knight and the hound and Baskerville and Sherlock still dreams about it, completely against his will.

Truly, there are times where he hates the notion of a subconscious.

Automatically, he grabs his coat and shoes and heads out into the street, taking care to close the door quietly so that Mrs. Hudson doesn't worry about him. He's always loved walking around London, memorizing every detail, committing each road and alley and path to memory. It keeps him calm, occupies his mind for a few moments, keeps him from thinking about the nightmares and Irene Adler and, occasionally, even keeps him from thinking about Moriarty and when he will next strike.

He walks for hours through mostly abandoned streets, wandering further and further away from Baker Street until he has only a cursory knowledge of the paths around him. This is good; this gives him a new set of tasks, a new group of roads to remember and, possibly, new opportunities for his homeless network. With this in mind, he flicks his eyes about, examining homes and businesses for possible criminal enterprises. With the exception of a few pubs, everything is locked up and darkened for the night, ready to reopen in the morning (which is only a few hours away, he notes). He thinks that he vaguely recognizes the area as being close to an estate; the Churchill estate? The Powell estate? He can't recall, the memory is too faded.

But as soon as he walks around a corner into an alleyway, none of that matters. Everything beyond the alley disappears; the flat, John, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty. None of it matters.

He's found the blue box.

After years of searching for it in between cases, he has almost literally walked into it. It practically fills the alleyway, leaving only a small space on either side. There's some sort of light coming through the foggy windows, light that looks more like sunlight than florescent. There's more wear to it then he remembers; the front is pockmarked with a few holes and what looks like a massive burn mark, but it's still the same blue box he's been dreaming of since he was a child.

He feels like his heart might have spontaneously moved into his throat.

When he reaches out his hand to touch it, he's momentarily afraid that it'll vanish again; that he'll go right through it. Perhaps he's dreaming again, sleeping in a back lane. Maybe he's been drugged again, although he really doubts that. But instead, his hand makes contact with the wood, creating a quiet thump that is, nonetheless, proof that the box exists. He can feel more, invisible scars underneath his fingertips, covered up by layers of paint. He can only begin to imagine what has marred its surface, what alien life forms have seen and touched it.

He's still trying to wrap his head around the whole aliens exist thing. Even with the strange events that have occurred over the last few years in London (most of which he's heard about from John; he has better things to do than read the paper daily), it's still surprisingly hard to come to terms with. But the proven, physical presence of the box puts him one step closer to properly believing in the notion.

He's not sure what he'll find behind the door if it opens, but he tries to get in anyways, putting all of his weight into it. The door doesn't budge one bit and he steps back, contemplating whether it's worth trying to pick the lock or not. He's positive he could do it, but he's not sure if the Doctor has installed some kind of anti-theft device that would fry him the instant he attempted to force his way in. He decides to go with the safer route and, after knocking once (he probably should have done that first), he lets himself slide to the ground, leaning against the police box. If he puts his ear to the wood and listens closely, he can hear a quiet sort of thrumming coming from inside. It's probably some sort of machinery but to Sherlock, it sounds more like the pounding of a heart, somewhere far away.

It doesn't make much sense, but the situation as a whole doesn't either. So he doesn't bother worrying about it. Instead, he merely shuts his eyes and tilts his head back against the scarred wood, keeping half his mind focused on anyone approaching. With the other half of his mind, he runs over the route he had traversed, retracing his steps until he's positive he has the path down completely.

When he opens his eyes again, the sun is shining and he's lying on the floor of the alley, his back groaning in pain. He sits up slowly, disorientated, not entirely sure where he is or what he's doing there.

Then, cold realization hits him and he stands up, spinning around, only barely noticing that his wallet has disappeared from the inside of his jacket. His body had betrayed him; he'd fallen asleep and while he'd slept uselessly, he'd missed his one chance to meet the Doctor. The very thought nearly overwhelms him and he has to shut his eyes; there's too much stimuli, too many emotions hitting him all at once, emotions that he can't shut off. He feels like he's going to have a panic attack and he frantically searches through his pockets, looking for his phone. He needs John, he's the only person who will understand, who will be able to talk him out of it-

There's a piece of paper in his pocket. At first, he thinks that it might just be an old receipt or scrawled note but the paper isn't wrinkled; the folds are still sharp, as if the paper was just placed there only moments before. He tears it out quickly and unfolds it, trying hard not to leave tiny rips as he goes along. It's strange paper; it has a sort of bumpy texture and it's at least a centimetre thick. The writing on it is in blue ink and is hard angles and loops and swirls. It's a massive contradiction and Sherlock doesn't even bother trying to delve into the meaning behind the handwriting. He simply reads the words for what they are.

_Sherlock,_

_I know what you're thinking and I'm sorry that I ran off before we could properly meet. But it wasn't the right time yet. We will have another chance, I promise; it's a fixed point in time but I don't suppose you know what that means yet. No matter!_

_I can't say much about what will happen but you can get through it, I promise. Not long now. Try to stay patient (and yes, I know that's mighty difficult for you; hence the word try)._

_The Doctor_


	9. Falling and Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter!

Sherlock has never been one to work in metaphors. He has never had a use for those who sought to disguise the meanings of their words under countless layers of fluff and nonsense. He supposed that most of them did it to appear clever, to see who could be as uselessly opaque as possible.

The reality, that none of them had the intelligence to grasp, was that it didn't make them look clever. It made them look stupid and boring to boot and if there's one thing Sherlock really can't stand, it's people who are both stupid and boring.

The fact of the matter, however, is that as much as Sherlock hates metaphors and the people who rely on them, a metaphor was the only way he could think of to describe what was happening to him. His heart, a pyre that was never lit, has suddenly been ignited, nearly overwhelming his rational mind with almost foreign emotions. The truth is that he knows what it's like to care for people for the first time in his life. He knows what it feels like to fear for another's life and finally, he understands the notion of sacrifice.

He thinks it's funny how it's only on his death bed that he's acquired rudimentary social skills and the emotional understanding necessary to utilize them.

Moriarty is dead on the ground beside him; he knows this to be a fact without bending down to search for a pulse. The stink of his hot blood on the roof is enough for a confirmation. Sherlock can still hear the sound of the gunshot echoing in his head, despite the fact that the sound has long since been extinguished. The street below the roof of the hospital is full of early morning traffic, both vehicles and pedestrians. He knows that, within a few minutes, John will be joining the fray, having realized that Mrs. Hudson was safe and not injured.

Sherlock hated having to lie to John, but it had been the only way he could think of at the time to keep him safe. Had John known what Sherlock was planning, he would have insisted on accompanying him to the roof to meet Moriarty and Sherlock wasn't going to allow that to happen, especially since he'd been so certain that Moriarty was planning on killing him.

How had he allowed himself to be so stupid?

He should have known that Moriarty wouldn't resort to killing him with his own hands; that was too undignified for the criminal mastermind and beyond that, it was far too simple. Even Moriarty's last plan, his last stroke, had to be deviously complicated. He just had to play on Sherlock's humanity, the humanity he hadn't even known he'd possessed. But Moriarty had known; he'd known all along, of course and he wasn't afraid to sacrifice himself to bring Sherlock down with him.

Sacrifice. There's that concept again, nagging him.

He knows there's really only one thing left to do. He knows it's possible that Moriarty had just been bluffing about the gunmen but Sherlock knows that possibility is miniscule. Moriarty wouldn't waste his talents on such a tactic and since there's no possible way he managed to survive a direct gunshot wound to the head, his last words had almost certainly been the truth. There _are_ snipers, crouching in the shadows and if Sherlock doesn't step up to the edge, if he doesn't provide his body as payment, those snipers will destroy the only people who give a damn about him.

Turning away from Moriarty's cooling corpse, Sherlock sighs. He's made a lot of mistakes in his life. He knows that he's been cold to people who really didn't deserve it, simply because he didn't know how to treat them properly. He's taken advantage of people and used them for his own purposes, used them like parts of some grand experiment. He's made the lives of the people around him more difficult, simply by existing.

He thinks that it's time to stop making mistakes.

When he steps onto the edge of the roof, he takes a minute to pause, staring at the vista before him. He's never really thought about his own death; it didn't seem important to think about it. But he thinks there are worse places he could die than in London, the city that, really, had become his life. It was a fitting death, and how many people got those?

John arrives within the next few minutes, as he predicted. As soon as he steps out of the cab, Sherlock presses dial on his mobile, the number already keyed in. He watches John pick up, the whole situation completely surreal to view from his rooftop position.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Where are you?" Even now, John doesn't sound mad, just confused as he whirls around in the street, looking in every direction but the right one.

"Up here." Sherlock's surprised when he can barely spit the words out. It's cruel what he's doing; he should have jumped before John arrived, or waited until he was out of the street. John's a good man, the best one that Sherlock has ever met and he doesn't deserve the treatment Sherlock's given him. He certainly doesn't deserve to die, shot by a faceless sniper for someone else's mistakes.

"Sherlock?" He watches John get the picture and even from the lofty height, Sherlock can see the horrified look that crosses his face. It's beyond horror, it's _fear_ , of the deepest variety. It's enough to make Sherlock cry, for the first time in years. It lasts for only a few seconds, however; he forces himself to keep his composure. His voice mustn't waver.

When he speaks again, he tells lies. He tells John that he's a fake, that every word Moriarty said was true. He's nothing but a heartless, manipulative man who just wanted to impress people. With every word, he feels like he's ripping his own heart out.

When he's done, he throws his mobile behind him, hearing it smash on the rooftop. He can't bear to hear John's response, can't bear to connect the voice to the tears he can see below him. As he extends his arms, fingertips grasping for the air, John starts to run, screaming Sherlock's name at the top of his lungs.

Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows once.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words immediately lost to the air. "I'm so sorry."

He falls.

He lands.

This isn't an unusual statement. What's unusual is that Sherlock feels himself land and, other than having the breath knocked out of him, he feels fine. There's no agony as his ribs splinter into his organs, no excruciating pain as his spine snaps in six different places. There's only his lack of breath and the feeling of a smooth floor underneath his face.

Smooth. Not rough, like the concrete that should have been his resting place. Instead, there's what appears to be glass, under which he can see the silhouettes of some kind of floor supports. Despite his aching chest, he sits up quickly, thoughts running through his head at breakneck pace.

"Sorry about the rough landing." He twists his head roughly and any breath he had gathered back disappears again once he sees the man standing in front of him, leaning against a narrow metal railing. His hands are shoved in his pockets and as Sherlock's eyes scan upward, his Adam's apple shifts just above the bow tie.

It's him. The man in the blue box. The Doctor. It's really him, in the flesh, looking as young as always, hair falling into his face. He tweaks one of his braces on the way to the back of his neck, which he scratches nervously. The action only makes him look younger and Sherlock isn't entirely sure how to feel. There's no precedent for this scenario.

"Doctor?" he finally manages to spit out, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"The one and only," he responds, face splitting into a grin, all of the apprehensiveness immediately gone. "Well, not the only. There's plenty of doctors out there. But I'm the only me. Well, at least in this regeneration. Long story." He claps his hands once and bounds away from the railing, extending a hand that Sherlock gratefully takes.

"Now, I imagine you've got a few questions before we start off," he continues, spinning towards the central console, which Sherlock has just noticed. It's a weird patchwork of items, of levers and buttons and parts from computers and possibly cars. There's a faint humming coming from it and a vent in the middle is leaking a little bit of steam and Sherlock is completely and utterly perplexed.

He likes it. He's missed being genuinely confused about something.

And then he notices the rest of the place. It's… well, it's huge. There's no possible way that such a massive space, with stairways and halls leading away, could fit into the blue box, at least not if it was manufactured on Earth. The potential meaning of that last bit make his head spin in the most delightful way but with tremendous effort, he shoves all those thoughts away for the meantime. He does have questions but they're not about the impossibility of the blue box. Not yet.

"What happened?" he asks, unable to stop himself from running his fingers over a lever with bumps on the handle. "I… I was falling. And then I wasn't." His inability to vocalize what happened is almost embarrassing but judging by the Doctor's rather unique speech patterns, he's not a man who particularly minds not following the rules of language.

"I caught you," the Doctor says, shrugging as if it's the most obvious statement in the world. "Took a little bit of finagling with the parking and some temporal flitting about, plus a custom built perception filter and a lifelike doll from Roflaxia, but I caught you." Sherlock isn't exactly sure what a perception filter is, nor where Roflaxia is (didn't John mention a department store called that once?), but other than that, it's an explanation that _almost_ makes sense.

"But why? Why did you go through all that, just to catch me? Why me?" For a few moments, the Doctor paces, drumming his fingers on his legs. His mouth opens and closes a few times, as if words were forming in his throat and then dying.

"I've been alive for over a thousand years," he finally says, voice a lot quieter than before. "The walls of this TARDIS have seen a lot of people pass through. Every person I meet is extraordinary but each of those who came through here, they were all… different. They all needed something, whether that be a distraction or an adventure or a challenge and somehow, I became the one to help them. Or at least, to try. Sometimes, well, most of the time, I just make their lives worse." He pauses, leaning on the console and staring down at it. For once, Sherlock doesn't feel a need to interrupt or speak. He just stays silent until the Doctor lifts his head up again and in that moment, Sherlock sees the age in his eyes.

"The first time I landed in your backyard, Sherlock, I knew you were a lonely little boy. I knew that without even speaking to you. I recognized it. And every time I popped back into your life, you were still lonely, still looking for something. I wanted to help but I had to wait until you were at your very lowest. I had to catch you, it was a fixed point in time. But just because I caught you doesn't mean you have to stay."

"What?" The words catch Sherlock off guard. Of all the things he'd been expecting to hear, that was not one of them.

"You don't have to stay." The Doctor shrugs again but this time, there is no sign of his previous joviality. "I'd _like_ you to stay. I've been travelling alone for awhile now and I've… I've been told that being alone isn't good for me, no matter how much I think it is. But it's dangerous. Travelling, I mean. It can be the most amazing thing but sometimes, people get hurt. They don't always come back. But Sherlock…" The Doctor steps forward and lays one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, ancient eyes boring into him. It's a terribly powerful gaze and it makes Sherlock feel very small and unimportant in the grand scheme of the world.

"You'll never be bored again. There'll always be mysteries and problems for you to solve and knowledge beyond anything on Earth. Despite everything else and all the danger and possible emotional damage, I can promise you that, at the very least. The universe… it's a wonderful place. Would you like to see it?"

The Doctor had him at _you'll never be bored again._ Sherlock immediately nods but before the Doctor can speak again, he interrupts him, making the Doctor's grin stop spreading from ear to ear.

"There's something I have to do first."


	10. Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is the last chapter, I should probably say a few things. First of all: I did have fun writing this story. But fun does not necessarily equal good writing. Quite frankly, this story was really hard to write and I'll probably never write anything from Sherlock's point of view again. But on the flip side, it was certainly a learning experience. My apologies for this short, rather crappy epilogue. xo.

He's not sure why he feels the need to visit his own grave. He's sure that a psychiatrist would give him a proper answer, say something about his need for recognition but in the end, he doesn't think that it really matters. He just needs to and the Doctor grants his request, albeit a little hesitantly. He doesn't say anything but Sherlock can read it in the stiffening of his shoulders and the quick nibble on the corner of his mouth. Once they reach the cemetery, he stays in the doorway of the TARDIS, framed in the entryway. It's obvious that he's uncomfortable around graves but Sherlock doesn't probe for details. It's too early for that.

His gravestone is a small, simple thing, unobtrusive except for the fresh flowers sitting on top of it. He can't help but wonder who picked the stone out, who chose the engraving. Mrs. Hudson had probably been in charge of flowers, in making sure everything was organized. Mycroft's main contribution was probably his money, so that left only John. That thought made him feel slightly sick; it wasn't fair, what he'd done to John. Even if his own emotions were slightly underdeveloped (or so other people said), he was more than capable of understanding how others thought and he felt so, so guilty. He wished that he'd taken the time to come up with a contingency plan, to come up with even a rough draft of a will detailing his burial wishes (not that he particularly cared one way or the other).

He reminded himself that, in the end, his actions had been for the good of everyone else. He'd sacrificed himself to save those he cared for. One day, he'd apologize for what he'd put them through. He'd sit John down and tell him how sorry he was, for putting him through the worst kind of stress.

"When will I be able to come back?" he asks, turning towards the Doctor. "Because I can't leave forever."

"I don't know," he responds, looking slightly uneasy. "At some point, Moriarty's goons will stop hunting you, I'm sure. But I don't know when that will be. We can keep popping in though, every so often, if you'd like. It's entirely up to you." Sherlock merely nods. He's sure that, if he asked the Doctor to just take him three or so years into the future and drop him off, he would and that would be the end.

But truth be told, he's not quite ready for that yet. He wants to see the universe, to face challenges beyond those on Earth. He wants to meet people and aliens and he wants to be confused.

He'll come back, when it's safe for Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade. But until that day, until he no longer endangers his friends, he needs to leave.

The universe is a big place. He supposes it's about time he paid attention to it.


End file.
